The Painted Lady
by Andromeda's kitty
Summary: The second fic in Jaz's series. Disclaimer same as before. Aya-centered story. Mostly set between Takatori's death and when Weiss gets back together. Irritation for Aya involving Yakuza and dance club personnel. Enjoy!


Shrewd dark eyes studied the computer screen with marked interest. He had pulled up images from security cameras in Black Widow, a popular dance club. There was Mieko-san, the young woman who owned the place, along with several other clubs in the city. As usual, her colorfully dyed hair was pulled up and her face was painted.

But...

"Who is this?"

"Boss?"

"Here." He pointed at the image of a young man who had suddenly joined the so-called Dance Club Queen of Tokyo. "Who is he?"

"Mieko's latest conquest. Who cares?"

"Baka," the man growled. He leaned forward, practically pressing his nose to the computer screen, studying the man's red hair and wiry frame. "I know I have seen him before..."

"Have you? Pity the poor bastard, then. I heard that Harada told someone that woman rips men to pieces and tosses them aside. Bad news, she is."

"Bad news for some... Lucky for others, perhaps."

The laptop computer snapped shut.

"Find him."

"I'm sorry, Fujimiya-san. This still isn't the correct paperwork."

Hm. Figures.

Rather than being annoyed at the revelation that his trip had been entirely in vain, he simply sighed and turned his gaze out the window. Why did hospitals have to employ people who never gave one a straight answer?

"Then would you write down for me everything I need? I don't want to have to make another trip."

Or did he?

Already his mind raced away, back to that night, back to that club.

Back to that woman.

_Black Widow._

_ It seemed like just the sort of place he could unwind a bit. Loud music. Leather-clad bodies writhing anonymously against one another in time with the pulsing beat. Mist over the floor and dramatically colored lighting._

_ This place had better not disappoint._

_ He slipped into the surprisingly long line of people waiting to be allowed or denied entry to the club. It wasn't invitation only, but it did seem that the bouncer was letting people in at random, or on a whim._

_ Popular place._

_ The line snaked around, and soon he expected it would be his turn to argue with the bouncer. He was working up a suitable amount of determination when abruptly someone forced right through the line and seized him by the collar._

_ "Rinji!" bellowed a female voice right behind his ear. "One more!"_

_ He was deposited right in front of a burly man who was resplendent with spikes and chains. "Rinji, I presume?" he grumbled, mostly to himself. Glancing behind him, he found a woman dressed in an outfit that matched Rinji's._

_ So they were a team. That's a new idea._

_ Rinji met his unwavering gaze for a moment, then nodded. "He'll do." He stepped aside. "Go on in, boy."_

"Fujimiya." He tossed a plain manila folder down on the glowing mahogany surface of the desk. "Ran."

Long fingernails clicked the desk and flicked the folder open, revealing a candid photograph of the red-haired man. He looked surprised, almost horrified that someone was taking a picture of him. In the photo he wore a yellow apron and carried an armload of flowers.

"It's all in the file," the man informed her, smugly brushing a hand over his moustache. "He's a florist, but that's not his real vocation."

"Assassin," the woman read, her crimson lips pursed slightly. "Weiß. I'd thought that when Prime Minister Takatori died, we'd heard the last of them. Well done, Harada. You never fail to impress."

"This seems to be a lot of trouble just to be polite."

Long-lashed eyes glared across the office to the small man who stood near the door. "One must always strive to treat others with the utmost courtesy. It is what elevates us above mere naked apes."

"Apes like Yamada?"

"That's being generous," Harada informed the shorter man.

"He's moved away!" Her plain features fell into a pout, and she snapped the file closed. "Harada, why does our friend Fujimiya no longer live in my city?"

"I could not find anything definite, but it seems that Weiß dissolved after that messy incident in which their existence became public knowledge. Perhaps that is the reason."

"No matter," she decided. "We'll contact him."

The man by the door fidgeted with the zipper of his sweatshirt. "Is it a good idea for us to approach an assassin this way?"

Finely groomed brows swept downward. "Surely, Seita, you are not suggesting that we neglect to thank Fujimiya-san?"

The short man shrank visibly, edging nearer to the door. "Nothing of the kind, Mieko-san. Forgive me."

"Then you will carry the message."

His eyes flew wide in surprise while Harada chuckled. "M-me? Why?"

"Because." Her fingernails clacked against the mahogany of the desk. "You seemed unusually fond of Fujimiya-san."

"Are you sure that was more than usual?"

And they both laughed at the little man whose cheeks were becoming tinged with red. He glared back at them.

Sighing, he stood staring for a long moment. There was the flower shop. There was his former life. There were the ashes of Abyssinian.

Let it lie.

He sipped at his coffee for a moment longer before getting back into his car. One could not miss a chance to buy a cup of the best coffee in Japan. He turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine.

A few minutes later, he was speeding by that club, on his way to the hospital to collect the necessary paperwork. By the daylight, Black Widow seemed so lifeless, and perfectly innocuous.

By in the night...

_It was just as he had hoped. The music within the club was loud and hard, pulsing through him and begging him to dance._

_ He slipped through the crush of scantily clad bodies, insinuating himself out onto the dance floor. No sooner had he begun to writhe to the enticing beat than a hand brushed against his leather-clad thigh._

_ "Welcome."_

_ This was not what he sought. Wide eyes peered eagerly up at him from beneath blond bangs. Behind the bangs, the boy's hair was red. Despite his young, sweet appearance, he wore leather and chains._

_ "Shitsurei," he nearly shouted over the music. "Not to be rude, but you look like an evil Hikaru."_

_ "I get that a lot. Want to dance?"_

_ "Sorry. I'm not looking for manga boys."_

_ The evil manga boy grinned. "What _are_ you looking for?" While they talked the boy moved closer, practically dancing against him._

_ "I don't know." He half turned away. "Maybe a Saitou. Maybe a Lady Une."_

_ Evil Hikaru laughed. "Good luck with that!" And then he danced away through the crowd, reaching and groping the whole way._

_ Perhaps he had set his expectations a little too high?_

_ But then the crowd almost seemed to part, and there She was. The woman glided across the dance floor, not dancing but moving to the beat nonetheless. Her gaze, shaded by long, thick lashes, darted this way and that, taking in absolutely everything. Her dye-streaked hair was twisted up in an alluring style. She wore a mesh kimono-style shirt over something small, tight, and made of leather. Chains clinked and the spikes on her black choker glinted in the shifting lights. Her face, with more than commonly plain features, was painted in sparkling colors with a pair of demon wings – all bony claws and fire._

_ She was not pretty. No, far from it. But somehow, she was regal, exotic, and absolutely stunning._

_ He decided he would watch her for a while._

Perhaps, if he had the time, he would go back there tonight.

"That's him. White Porsche. Let's go."

The black car peeled away from the curb and slipped into traffic a few vehicles back from the white Porsche. This was an uncanny stroke of luck, seeing the red-haired man by pure chance. They tailed him with subtle skill all the way to...

"A hospital?"

"He obviously has some business there," the curly-haired man at the steering wheel replied. He pulled the car over, put the engine in neutral, and leaned back comfortably. "We'll wait until he's finished."

"Story of my life," the man with tri-colored hair complained, slumping against the tinted window. "All I wanted was a damn cup of coffee."

"Patience, shorty."

He stuck his tongue out at the tall man. Hurry up and wait. The story of his life any more. Sighing, he stared at the hospital doors. How long would this take?

Two and a half arguments later, the driver huffed softly into his moustache. "Look. He's coming back."

"Yosh'!" The smaller man bounded out of the car. "Let's roll!"

He hurried toward the red-haired man, but before he made it, a van screeched up to the curb. Five men in suits poured out of the back and engulfed that poor assassin man. The struggle was fierce, but brief. They must have drugged their quarry, for in the end they dragged his limp form into the van without much trouble.

"Seita!" The black car pulled up alongside the small man.

"I didn't do it! Go get those bastards!"

And that was how Harada sped away after the fleeing van, leaving Seita standing on the curb in front of the hospital, staring rather stupidly after them all.

Well, damn them anyway. From the look on Harada's face, this could easily have been Yamada's doing. He scuffed his toe sullenly along the curb, and a paper blew against his foot.

There was a whole stack of papers, all neat and official, scattered around where poor Fujimiya had been abducted. Stooping, Seita carefully collected every page. This would be a bitch to put back in order.

But he managed it. Right there in front of the hospital, he knelt down and organized the entire pile. _Fujimiya_, he read in the file. _Aya_. A family member, probably. And it was no wonder the redhead was so surly, if this girl had been in a coma for so long.

Carefully, Seita tucked the papers into his jacket. These he would bring to Mieko-san, along with the news of Red's kidnapping.

"Wake up."

Iie. His eyelids felt heavy, and his mouth dry and cottony. What had they given him? The injection site – the side of his neck – ached.

Whoever they were, they would pay dearly for drugging him.

And he would have to get those damned papers again!

His eyes flew open, and he glared. As it turned out, the object of his wrath stood silhouetted, interrogation-style, with lights carefully positioned behind him.

"That's better. Now you'll be the perfect bait."

Die.

"Bait?" He might be willing to play along a little in order to get some information. "For what?"

The man actually laughed. "For Mieko, of course." One gloved finger pressed under his chin. "I hear she liked you quite a lot."

"And I hear Mieko never likes the same man twice."

His captor chuckled. "And I'd thought you hadn't heard much about her. Being from out of town and all, I mean."

"I've had quite a great deal of business in town recently."

"At that hospital? What is it to you? What keeps you going back?"

The redhead simply glared.

Another cruel chuckle fell upon his ears. "It would seem your temperament is well suited to hers. Stubborn. Reckless. Foolish."

What would he know of foolish?

_Evil Hikaru danced over to his painted demon. The two of them, apparently well acquainted, spoke with one another for a few moments, and then the boy with the dyed hair slipped away again. He caught a curly-haired man by the hips and began to grind against him._

_ Curly-Hair was armed._

_ Quick violet eyes noticed the Russian semi-automatic handgun in the back of the tall man's belt, and he wondered how that had got past the bouncers. Rinji had seen it, hadn't he?_

_ Since when was he on a first-name basis with a club bouncer?_

_ Shaking his head at himself, he returned his attention to the woman. Long-lashed eyes glanced his way, and he danced. His long, lean body writhed to the beat, expressing desire in every twist, every single movement. His own hand moved upward over his hip, an overt invitation._

_ Promptly, three people tried to dance with him._

_ By the time he had extricated himself from their attentions, he found his Lady flanked by Evil Hikaru and Curly-Hair. She had noticed the gun?_

_ He turned with the music, giving her a good view of his backside. Perhaps she could be persuaded to shake her current company. He ran a hand into his dyed red hair and stepped to turn back, when a familiar face stopped him._

_ But that was all that was familiar._

_The heavy leather collar, the mesh shirt, the buckled jacket and pendulous earring... What the hell...?_

_ "Omi!" Distracted from his night's entertainment, he forced his way between two dancing couples to reach the seventeen-year-old. "Oi, Omi!" When the boy did not turn, he seized him by the arm and spun him about. "Omi-kun?"_

_ An unsettlingly blank expression stared up at him. "Shitsurei." Omi pulled his arm away. "Do I know you?"_

_ A surprised explosion of breath rushed past his lips and ended in a curse. "Omi-kun," he objected, struggling for words. "Daijoubu? Is something wrong? Don't you know me?" Before he realized what he was doing, he had hold of the boy by the shoulders and was shaking him._

_ Coldly, Omi pushed him away. "Omi-kun?" He brushed at his sleeves, almost haughtily. "I don't know him. Sorry. You've got the wrong person."_

_ But this had to be Omi. How could it not? And why would he lie? He opened his mouth to reply, but a vision of mesh and leather breezed between them._

_ "So you like boys? I guess I had you figured wrong." Long-lashed eyes raked over him in a way that made his blood race in his ears. The mesh kimono sleeves trailing like the demon wings on her face, she turned to appraise Omi, whose flushed cheeks and look of alarm betrayed him._

_ "Iie. Not him. He lies."_

_ "Good." One hand, blood red nails peeking from a fingerless glove, beckoned to him as she glided away. "Follow me, Akai."_

_ He did not mind her calling him Red._

_ He should have guessed at her identity._

"Are you just upset because you cannot use me to get what you want?"

Growling a curse, the man backhanded him, slamming his head against the chair to which he was tied. Figures. Who was he? Yakuza?

"Are you finished wasting our time? I really have somewhere to be."

Another blow across the face rewarded his question. "I will decide when I am finished with you."

This would be fun.

"A pity." A light touch of mascara thickened already-dramatic lashes. "I did enjoy him. And Harada?"

Seita's eyes widened. "Has he not returned?"

"Iie. The papers, Seita." Mieko did not glance away from the task at hand, painting a delicate spider's web across her entire face. "What are they?"

"Hospital records. For his younger sister, Aya."

One brush streaked black across her lips, and then another added silver. "And?" Next came the glitter, highlighting eyes and cheekbones.

And what? Nervously, Seita shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. "He dropped them when those bastards pulled him into the van."

"Did you put every page back in order?"

The young man promptly blushed.

"I suspected as much." A little bit of a smile crept across Mieko's painted lips. "You're such a vampire, Seita."

He bowed a little. "Arigato."

A light dusting of powder finished the art upon her face. That done, the club proprietor began meticulously pulling her dye-streaked hair up for the evening. "Well, for tonight you'd best leave those in the office safe."

"And?"

"And what, Seita?" A few clips held the hair in place, twisted high to spray across the back of her head. Turning, she eyed him coolly. "Tonight, we will make our rounds as scheduled. Black Widow and Painted Lady. And you will stay close to me, since Harada will be absent. Understood?"

Seita bowed his head. "Hai," he replied quietly. Business as usual, but Red's unfortunate fate saddened him somehow.

"And tomorrow," Mieko continued, something wickedly determined glinting in her eyes, "we shall return the papers to Fujimiya-san."

_Blood red lips a breath from his…_

A meaty hand seized him by the throat and twisted his head upward. A bright light shone directly into his eyes, and his captor laughed cruelly.

_Blood red fingernails raked over his exposed skin…_

His torn shirt was cast into the darkness somewhere beyond the piercing beam of light. The tip of some cold metal instrument traced down his chest, pausing briefly, as though the torturer suffered a moment of confusion.

"What are these scars?"

_"Mmm… Kirei. What perfect scars."_

_ In an instant, she leapt upon him. Her perfect white teeth sank into his neck, right at the base where it met his shoulder. Hard. His gasp of surprise ended in a grating moan._

_ Perfect indeed._

"Betsuni."

"Are you a fighter? What are you hiding?"

The redheaded man turned his face away and closed his eyes. They were not worth his time. Cold steel bit into his flesh, but drew not a sound from his lips.

_Nimble, long-nailed fingers tied his wrists with his own silk shirt. His breathing ragged and shallow now, he watched the light play on the glittered paint still flawless upon this fierce woman's face. As she leaned back, he felt how his body strained against the leather he still wore, and he wondered how long she would leave him thus confined._

_ "Now, Akai. Tell me…"_

"Tell me what you are!"

"I was a florist," he replied calmly, ignoring the pain in his lower stomach. "Right now I have a temporary construction job."

The slender blade twisted sharply under his skin. "What are you to her?"

Nothing.

He smirked coldly. "Just an evening's entertainment. I thought we had discussed this already."

Then the pain, white and blinding.

_A teasing smile playing across her painted lips, she peered up from his nipple – sharply peaked from a fresh bite. "So that is how you like it. Interesting."_

_ Her kiss was fierce, hot, and brief, tasting of lust and… Something frenzied. Something savage._

_ Something perfect._

_ Had anything ever felt more right?_

"This isn't working."

"I can see that," snapped the man who nagged him with irritating and insignificant questions.

Good to know there was some hope for them to see reason.

"We'll have to bring in a specialist."

So much for hope.

_"Seita! Harada!"_

_ What was this? He momentarily panicked as the door opened and two men slipped inside. Evil Hikaru and Curly-Hair. What the hell…?_

_ The woman's long-lashed eyes gleamed devilishly. "Meet Akai. He is a good toy."_

_ Good toy? Had he somehow won her favor?_

_ "Hai, Mieko-san!" Eagerly, Evil Hikaru bounced toward them. Curly-Hair hung back near the door._

_ But this was Mieko. His goddess, his Painted Lady. How had he been so foolish not to guess that such a woman would be the one who owned the four most popular dance clubs in Tokyo?_

_ Evil Hikaru held him down while the fabled Mieko bent her head to his chest once more._

_ With any luck, she would rip him to pieces._

Boom.

A gift from some old friends. Former KGB.

Heh.

When the smoke cleared, the interrogation room was short one person.

Yamada howled his rage to the clouded air.

In the cramped ventilation shaft, a gloved hand tightly covered the red-haired man's mouth. Another pressed a folded cloth to the deepest of his wounds.

"Quiet," hissed a faint breath in his ear. Needlessly so. Would he utter a sound with the frenzy of activity among the yakuza who had suddenly lost their hostage.

His rescuer, who he could now see was the curly-haired man from the club—Harada, wasn't it?—slithered soundlessly backward. Together they crept deeper into the shadows. Harada led the way, trusting that the bleeding young man would in no way betray their location.

The night welcomed them onto the roof of the building. Gravely, Harada turned and pressed something cold and heavy into the wounded man's hand. A Russian semi-automatic.

"You might need this."

Then he clicked a switch that shut off the by-pass of the security system.

"Who are you?" The red-haired man sounded perhaps a bit more mystified than he had intended.

"Harada." He smiled. "Mieko's bodyguard."

With that, he attached a thin black cord to the edge of the roof. He clipped a small device onto it. Fujimiya eyed him quizzically.

"James Bond?" he joked. Must be the blood loss.

"Just hold on."

In moments, their feet touched the damp cement of the alley behind the building. A sound like running feet echoed from the street. Roughly, Harada pushed the redhead up against the wall, where the shadows fell fully across them. Fujimiya grunted softly, surprised. His hair smelled of sweat, just like that night at the Black Widow. Harada smiled faintly at the memory.

As the sounds receded into the distance, the curly-haired man stepped back. "This way," he hissed.

Fujimiya followed him through a maze of alleys. At last he began to recognize the area. Harada pushed him into the shadows again as a black sedan drove past.

"Go a little bit ahead," Harada instructed. "I'll cover you. If we get separated, we'll meet at the Painted Lady."

Fujimiya nodded, then staggered away down the street. Getting tired, Harada surmised. Blood loss.

Like a whisper in the night, he shadowed the injured man. As he slipped from darkness to darkness, he carefully screwed a silencer into the barrel of his smaller gun. Eight shots. He'd better make them count.

Two snipers on a roof took aim. Two shots silenced them forever. Another precious bullet failed to stop a familiar car, forcing him to expend one more. The gas tank burst into flames.

Four bullets left.

A benefit of the wasted shot was that he, though unseen, had captured the undivided attention of Fujimiya's pursuers. The red-haired man did not even spare one backward glance.

Good. It gave Harada more space to hold off the yakuza goons.

One shot took down an armed man on a motorcycle. It cost him, however, a movement in the light. Time to disappear.

"Ivan Dmitri Harada!"

No.

No, no, no.

Not now.

Fuck it all with a broken spork!

Shots rang out, and he knew no more.

"Matta." The bouncer held him at the door. "Do you think you can just walk in here looking like that?"

He thought about it for a minute. Hai, ripped slacks and a bloody shirt – borrowed from a person who no longer had need of it – were grotesquely inappropriate for a club as high class as the Painted Lady. However… He reached into his pocket and withdrew a somewhat battered piece of paper, the same size and texture as a business card.

"Mieko-san gave this to me."

Present it to any bouncer at any club, she had said, and he would be allowed inside instantly. No matter the circumstances?

The bouncer – a taller man than Rinji – frowned down at the card, flipped it over, then handed it back.

"Go ahead, sir."

The well-dressed crowd waiting for their chance to step up to the doors all groaned and grumbled. He paid them no mind. Through the high arched doorway and the beveled glass doors, he found himself stepping into a world of enchantment.

Mist poured across the dance floor, but not thickly enough to cover the black and white tiles. Gauzy curtains in vibrant colors fluttered around the edges of the dance floor and up in two soaring spirals, where they separated small, elegant tables along catwalks overlooking the dancers below. Every light was surrounded by strategically placed crystals that scattered rainbows in every direction. This elegant place could not be more different from the stark black and red of the Black Widow.

He found it humbling, thinking that he stood in the very club that began it all. This was the club that Mieko inherited as a teenager. This was her first, the one where she built her reputation. The one where she first gained a devoted following. And now, that same woman who had begun her career as a girl with one obscure club had become known as the dance club queen of Tokyo. His head spun with the thought.

Or perhaps it was simply blood loss.

But where was Mieko? Slowly, becoming more aware of the pain in his stomach with each step, he climbed one of the catwalks. Perhaps he could see her from above?

People murmured as he passed, but he scarcely heard them over the music, a dance mix made popular by the legendary DJ known as Black Star. Halfway up the soaring walkway, he noticed that the white tiles on the dance floor below were arranged in the shape of a gigantic butterfly.

"Akai."

He turned, but it was not Mieko who spoke to him. Evil Hikaru beamed up at him. What was that boy's name…?

"Seita," the boy informed him, expecting him not to remember. "You are Fujimiya. Follow me."

And suddenly the wicked little manga boy was all business. Seita led the way up to the top of the catwalk, where a mirrored door with no knob stood. The boy with the dyed hair shifted aside a bit of gauzy blue fabric and tapped a code on a nearly invisible keypad. Immediately, the door slid open.

"Wait in here," Seita instructed firmly.

So he was left alone in Mieko's office. A leather chair crouched behind a monstrous, marble-topped desk. Through glass panels in the floor, he could see down into the club below.

Interesting.

"Akai."

He turned, and his weariness and pain melted away. Long-lashed eyes burned through him from amid the sparkling strands of a black and silver spider's web. Her mesh and leather had been traded for beautifully embroidered silk beneath a layer of something sheer and gauzy. She was truly exquisite, this glistening goddess of destruction. Remembering how those long-nailed hands, now resplendent with the finest of silver baubles, had once methodically taken him to pieces and left him utterly fulfilled, he felt his knees go weak.

"Sit down, Akai." A light shove was sufficient to propel him into a deliciously comfortable leather chair. "Seita will see to your injuries."

Evil Hikaru had reappeared with a first aid kit in hand.

"Your third gave me this." The red-haired man winced slightly as he reached out to place the borrowed handgun upon the cool marble surface of Mieko's great mahogany desk. "He said to meet him here."

"You needn't wait up for him," Mieko replied, her silvery lips pursed slightly. "He is very thorough. He ought to be. He grew up in a powerful mafia Family in Vladivostok."

Was Mieko volunteering information? Didn't that contradict her carefully cultivated image? Abruptly, he realized that she was telling him not to worry about his wayward rescuer.

"Who was that man? The one who abducted me?" A breath hissed through his teeth as a needle bit into his flesh.

Being pieced back together was never enjoyable.

"He is none of your concern," Mieko replied sharply. "Merely a fool who believes I owe him something and wishes to collect on the imaginary debt. I've a better occupation for your worries, Fujimiya-san."

She did not allow him the courtesy of a moment to recover from hearing his name from her lips. Instead, her fine hands presented him with the very stack of papers he had thought lost back at the hospital.

"Aya-chan is a beautiful girl, Akai. I'm sure you take care of her as well as any person is capable."

If Mieko only knew…

"Seita."

He glanced up from flicking a pencil along the surface of his employer's desk. "Nan?" His tone was dull, lifeless as the rising sun pricked wary tendrils through the high office windows.

"You keep this." Mieko's long-nailed hand, now stripped bare of adornment, pushed the Russian handgun across the desk toward him.

Seita's eyes widened in horror. Was she acknowledging the possibility that Harada would not return? But… But that man was indestructible. Surely he had to walk through that door at any moment… Right…?

Rising, Mieko paced wearily toward that same doorway toward which he stared. "I'm sorry, Seita," she murmured. "I'm so sorry. I know how attached to him you are, but we have to accept that for now at least, we will be without him. We have to move on, no matter if we expect him back or not. And, Seita…"

She paused, her hand poised to open the door. Deep sorrow in her eyes, she glanced back over her shoulder. "I need you now more than ever. There will be fewer hands to share the work, and with Binary opening next month…"

Seita's gaze turned downward to the gun. He knew what she was asking. This woman, the center of his universe, was asking him to forget his broken heart and continue on with business as usual.

"Hai. Wakata." Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Seita thrust the weapon into the back of his belt. He would try.

At least during business hours.

Finally, after that arduous trip, all the paperwork was in order. He could rest at last. Why did it not feel like an ending?

Other than a surprise e-mail from Omi, nothing interesting had happened in almost a week. When was the last time he'd had the luxury to be bored? Long before he had joined Weiß, to be sure.

It was better this way, doing honest work to pay his sister's bills. Love ought not be expressed through death. Aya should have no part of a life like that.

He smiled at odd times, thinking how happy his sister would be to know her brother had found more respectable employment. However, on rare occasions he felt a needling sort of regret, telling him he had left something he loved behind.

Nonsense.

Everything he loved, and surely the only thing he needed, had come with him.

After work he rushed home for a shower, and then right back out to the hospital. Maybe he would bring her flowers. The last time he had, however, he had felt guilty for not arranging them himself.

Foolish.

Flowers eventually forgotten, he arrived at the hospital and bounded up the stairs, feeling almost eager to see his sister. His heart felt light when he reached her door.

When he opened it, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach.

The bed was empty.

No Aya.

Gone.

Taken from him. Taken, and maliciously so, for the only clue left to him was a cross carved into the empty bed.

All the way back to Tokyo, he drove more recklessly than usual. He sped down familiar streets and spun to a stop in his old space behind the flower shop. Shimatta! How had he ever been so stupid? How could he have hoped to live a normal life?

He had calmed from rage and panic to an icy fury by the time he met Ken and Youji in the basement. They had both been attacked. Lucky for them.

And they never would have known how fortunate they were, if Omi had not shown up and guessed the reason for his presence. A new mission, naturally, would follow.

Mission or no, he vowed he would not rest until he found his sister.

Destruction falls like raindrops in the night. He tasted blood upon his lip, and amid the fire, his thoughts flew to crimson fingernails and a painted face.


End file.
